


Lullay, By, By, Lullay

by Shachaai



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: M/M, Romance Nations are beautiful whiny trashchildren when they're tired and cold
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-09
Updated: 2019-07-09
Packaged: 2020-06-25 10:36:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,132
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19743964
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Shachaai/pseuds/Shachaai
Summary: Mornings are early and outside the bedcovers is cold. Neither is appealing to Portugal.





	Lullay, By, By, Lullay

**Author's Note:**

> Crossposted from tumblr.
> 
> This turned out a softer piece than originally intended, despite Portugal slightly abusing his _foda_ s. (With thanks to Hoof, who, once she’d finished laughing at me accidentally writing ‘a fuck of fuckings’, fixed my Portuguese. I still think _fuck_ works as a collective noun in English.)

“Não.” Portugal protests stubbornly when the Netherlands tries to move away from him in bed, his eyes still firmly shut and his arms wrapped securely around the Dutchman’s waist.

“It’s morning,” says the Netherlands, because _good morning_ s to Portugal have only ever been greeted with wrinkled cat faces of disgust or groans. Somehow in the night he has ended up on his back - again - with Portugal curled into him - _again -,_ the older Nation’s face turned into the Netherlands’ bare shoulder and his messy hair spread like a cloud across the Netherlands’ chest. It shines like wet ink in the rosy light of a late December sunrise, soft and smelling faintly of rosemary through the rake of paler fingers.

Remembrance, and an artistic study in contrasts.

“ _Não_ ,” says Portugal, ever more obstinately, a deep grumble clawing its way up from the depths of his belly when the Netherlands tries to shift under him again. “Morning does not happen until winter is finished.” The Netherlands can feel Portugal’s jaw moving against his skin when he speaks. The beginnings of his stubble scratches. “Pull up the blankets.” 

“You are not hibernating in my bed all winter.” The Netherlands moves again - this time very purposefully, giving up on bringing Portugal back to wakefulness with small, considerate movements and just bodily pushing the other man off of him. He needs to piss. “Get up before my patience runs out and I might actually feed you.”

Portugal _groans_ like a man shot through the stomach, lying face-down in the tangle of bed-linen where the Netherlands dumped him. The light of the hour makes a smooth valley of shadow down the line of his back. “Por _que_ é que tenho que me sentir atraído por madrugadores?”

The Netherlands dumps the rest of the duvet on top of him as he gets out of bed.

“ _Que se_ fodam _os madrugadores_. Your sister’s bed is nicer than yours,” Portugal bitches, muffled, from beneath three layers of winter bed-linen.

“Go and complain in _her_ bed then,” says the Netherlands, and leaves his grumbling bedpartner ( _que se_ foda _a_ foda, _Holanda_ ) to grab a hot shower.

Outside the bathroom, outside the house, Amsterdam is already awake and busy. The schools are still closed for the winter break, but the work of adults must still go on. There are bikes in the streets and boats on the canals, humanity threading to and fro with the beat of the Netherlands’ heart, and the wildlife represents itself with a host of bright and furious _cheep_ s from the green parakeets that live in the tree in the Netherlands’ garden.

The Dutchman washes away the leftover stickiness of his skin from the night before, the faint ache of fingerprint-bruises on his hips and the sting of scratches drawn outwards from his lower back. As injuries go, Portugal has left him with much worse after a night together in the past. These are gentler times - if one doesn’t count the bureaucratic papercuts - and Portugal is -

The world has changed. Portugal is Portugal, and the Netherlands is no longer into idolisation or iconoclasm. Not of _that_ idiot.

Said idiot has fallen asleep again by the time the Netherlands returns from his shower, a towel around his hips and another scrubbing away the wetness of his hair. The winter is mild but the air is cold against still damp skin - enough so the Netherlands _really_ shouldn’t get distracted on the way to his dresser.

But he does.

Portugal has fought his head out from under the extra layer of duvet the Netherlands had dumped on him so he can breathe, still on his front but with his face turned towards the bathroom. His arms are wrapped firmly around one of the bed’s pillows, his shoulders rising and falling with the even breaths of sleep.

It’s easier to find affection for Portugal when the idiot’s eyes are shut. Sunrise has given over to the too-bright light of morning and determined birdsong, cutting swathes of gold and shadow across Portugal’s skin and bones. Sitting on the bed again, the Netherlands finds his hand around the curve of Portugal’s head, his thumb stroked idly over the suddenly, strangely, alien line of Portugal’s cheekbone.

 _“…Holanda?_ ” Portugal stirs, and the Netherlands takes his hand back before the drowsy Nation’s eyes can finally flutter open, squinting against the light. His mouth and jaw work, soundlessly, for a moment, his addled brain attempting to connect thoughts and heavy tongue together. “You have no clothes on.”

“Busy getting dressed,” says the Netherlands, and lowers the towel from his head to drape it around his neck.

Portugal’s eyes track the movement of his hands down, and stay heavy on his throat.

The hairs down the Netherlands’ back are prickling, drying in the cool air of the bedroom. “Bathroom’s free if you want a shower this morning.”

“ _Mm._ ” Portugal hums, low, and the Netherlands has no idea if that is an agreement or not. One of Portugal’s hands untucks from under his pillow, humid, slumberous heat, and touches the Dutch Nation’s arm. “Come back to bed.”

“We’ve been through this.” The Netherlands turns away from him, feeling the tingles of heat spread up to his elbow. “It’s morning -”

 _“Holanda._ ”

The Netherlands goes shock still. If the touch of Portugal’s hand to his arm was a surprise, the abrupt shift of Portugal behind him to sit up, pressing the hot line of him down the Netherlands’ back is enough to crack him like poor quality porcelain. The shudder of it _thud_ s through his ribcage, a harsh beat that contrasts with the mouth that is suddenly so soft on his nape, warm breath and the softer, rumpled sound of cotton sheets around them.

Portugal’s hand slides around the Netherlands’ waist, spreading slow and sure below the Dutch Nation’s ribs, over his belly. “Que se foda a manhã,” he murmurs, and his mouth has moved to the Netherlands’ shoulder now.

_Fuck the morning._

Unable - and uncaring enough - to halt the sound, the Netherlands snorts. “ _That’s_ your argument for staying in bed?”

Against his shoulder, Portugal _sighs,_ a hot gust of breath. His other hand comes up, and between that one and the one spread on the Netherlands’ stomach, Portugal pull-pushes the Netherlands back on the bed.

It’s December - _late_ December -, so the Netherlands allows himself to be manhandled, as he doesn’t actually have anything to do that day apart from feed his rabbits, the parakeets, and check the post-Christmas sales in the supermarkets. Back spread against the mattress, he _does_ raises his eyebrow at Portugal leaning over him though, the other Nation upside-down and with his hair hanging in a slither of curls between them.

The eyebrow stays raised when Portugal bends down to kiss him - but not, admittedly, for long.


End file.
